Made From a Different Metal
by CGKrows
Summary: Tony Stark is many things. He's a billionaire, he's an immature genius-level playboy, he's the superhero Iron Man, and not to mention a guy who's into philanthropy. But things like that can change within the blink of an eye, especially when something explodes in your face. After all, the man's made from a different kind of metal than most would honestly expect...
1. When Things Go Boom

Hey people! This is kind of my experiment with the mind of Tony Stark, along with a decent amount of fun with creating a plausible storyline that isn't too ludicrous. And sorry if the summary is complete garbage, because I find it hard to sum up within about 230-240 words. All you got to know is this: _Tony Stark is thrown brutally to Middle-Earth via accident, finds himself in a series of strange yet often amusing situations, and inevitably ends up being forced into the fellowship while trying to get back to the Avengers' Tower in his own universe. _May the fun begin!

P.S. This rout of inspiration came from reading _Avengers of the Ring by Dr Matthattan_. Awesome story, great insight. And since he said in the beginning of his story that Tony Stark should not be simply put in a crossover story of Lord of the Rings, I'm kind of challenging that idea with this very work. Anyway, start reading! And review!_  
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Tony Stark is many things. He's a Billionaire, he's an immature genius-level playboy, he's the superhero Iron Man, and not to mention a guy who has a bizarre degree in philanthropy; If that is possible. But things like that can change within the blink of an eye. After all, the man's made from a different metal...

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**Chapter One: When Things Go Boom**

Tony Stark is an immature genius of an asshole. He has a flair for quite the strange array of dramatics, enjoys insulting and otherwise using dry sarcasm as a verbal weapon, and probably drinks more whiskey than a 100% alcoholic. His teammates really find him annoying, with his arrogant actions and open gloating. Steve Rogers is practically driven insane with the amounts of impulsive rock, popular radio substance, and extremely suggestive Top 40 pop music the billionaire listens to in his lab. And Thor, in his own opinion, always found the color combination of Tony's suit foolish with its bright paint-job.

But that's just how Tony Stark likes it. Who can predict somebody like him to be a nice person? Nobody ever acknowledges it, but his teammates knew deep down he could be. That was why they put up with the filthy rich idiot, even if he had an IQ that surpassed Einstein. Because Tony usually would end up doing stupid socially unacceptable things, Pepper would clean up after him, and then the Avengers would have to deal with his social stupidity the rest of the day while questioning in their minds if he is at all sane.

And maybe for that reason the great, rich-and-powerful Tony Stark is alone in his tower for once in his new Avengers-style life, sitting at a work bench in his lab while tinkering aimlessly with new possibilities for his suit. Thor was in Asgard dealing with his recently imprisoned brother, Natasha and Clint were doing their super-secret-spy missions, Bruce decided to go out and help out at the nearby clinic, and Steve Rogers was stuck in some 40's gym drowning in his own self pity away from his subordinates. That left Stark with nobody to pester, contently alone with his work. A small part of him wishes there was some type of organic social contact, but who needs it? Surely not Tony Stark.

Thick work gloves covering his hands and a metal blast mask hiding his face, a blow torch burned furiously against flattened plates of condensed alloy. A protective upper body jerkin secured his figure, the famous Black Sabbath shirt underneath and a pair of heavy work jeans hugging his hips. Yet his feet are not covered, bare and slightly pink from the cold temperature of the tile floor. Tony is pointlessly bored, which meant the probability of him making something very original high, along with the fact he had consumed three cups of straight coffee and double that in exotic homemade cocktails. He does work better when he is drunk; slows his overwhelming amount of thought after about glass three.

Tony's project is... Well, something that goes Boom. They didn't call the man a weapons manufacturer in the past for nothing. He's made his share of bombs, missiles, and explosives. But for his suit? It is all about the size and cleverness involved. If Thor's brother Loki proved anything before he was defeated, it was better to be clever and a few steps ahead than to be naïve and a few steps behind. Though his upcoming plans for the Iron Man suit is something to do with brain wave responses and internal power cells, he figures it was better to be paranoid and make a bunch of back-up suits before he moves onto the big stuff. Thus the thing being tinkered with that could very possibly go Boom.

"_Sir, Director Fury is on the line._"

Tony groans, switching off his flame torch so he could respond to his AI easier without interference. "Jarvis, put him on voicemail. The one with that new youtube video would work best for Patches. You know, the ten minutes of Nyan Cat. That'll Cheer him up some..." He flicks the torch back on, the loud screech of welding metal returning.

"_Sir,_" spoke Jarvis, a tone louder and more insistent than before, "_He's attempting to override your commands. It seems his call is urgent._"

Stark twitches in annoyance behind his blast mask, then in a flash threw off the mask and discarded the blow torch, revealing his irritable scowl. Tony hates it when the stupid spy disguised as a leather-clad pirate interrupts his life. The guy needed a fucking hobby. Like stamp collecting. Or bug catching. Hell, maybe even arranging flowers!

"Put him on _SCREEN 3_, Jarvis. Set a timer to five minutes, so then I can hang up on him before he makes me go on a jolly journey with Capsicle and friends," said Tony, resigned but still very snarky. Hopping up and swiftly plopping himself at another desk with an entertaining swivel-chair, a hologram blinked into life. An agitated eye-patch equipped Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. looks right at Tony with an intensity that could make even the strongest man crumble. But Stark just gave the man his famous shark-eating smile.

"You rang?"

"_Stark, do not block me again. If you do, I will personally ship your ass to the Helicarrier without abiding by any Humanitarian protection laws enforced in the United States._"

"Why hello to you too," Said Tony with another cheeky grin. "Now what do you want, Patches? I was busy with stuff. Said stuff usually goes Boom, and when things go Boom under my attention, that means more funded reconstruction from your organization."

"_I hope you exercise caution_," responds Fury in sarcasm, only to become serious again, "_I need you and Banner to study something. It's some type of biologically enhanced bio-cable created to be virtually tear resistant with very few exceptions. Both of you need to find out everything possible about it, become experts._"

Tony arches an eyebrow, "No offense Cyclops, but that sounds more like Banner's territory than mine. Not to mention that seems to really remind me of that new vigilante on the block, Spider-Man."

The dark-skinned man glowers. "_That is something you do not need to know. The data should be sent to you now. Goodbye, Stark-_"

"Oh no you don't!" shouts Tony, raising his voice, "I'm not letting you off on this, Pirate Captain. Is Spider-Man just the newest victim of your radar, or are you going to shove him into our little house of horrors?"

"_As I stated before, Stark, this is none of your concern. **GOOD. BYE.**_"

Tony growls in annoyance and frustration, angered by the sudden turn of events. In the last week, it seemed to the billionaire that the world was trying to catch up with itself. After confronting Loki, New York was not the same. Hell, he wasn't the same! There were people dead, over twenty blocks of the city destroyed, and a grand-spanking-new team of misfit superheroes that now occupied what was once Stark Tower. Then not long after that, there had been a big bulletin in the News (which all of the Avengers sat down to watch on the widescreen with grim expressions) of a genetically-spliced lizard man battling it out on the top of a corporation building against the new and well known vigilante Spider-Man. Ever since then, their team had been tracking S.H.I.E.L.D.'s files for the new masked man. As much as they wanted to trust Fury, after his first stunt, it was hard to take his word for everything.

Since then, Stark has tried to cover the new guy's trails for him. His well-hidden kindness lead him to protect the kid, yet it appears now that S.H.I.E.L.D. wants none of that. They're forcing Tony and Banner to experiment and outsmart a guy who's actually helping the city! The billionaire is honestly having a hard time not making something go Boom. Maybe that's why he's an ex-weapon's manufacturer. Sighing, he slips back on his appropriate welding equipment and moves to continue fiddling with the explosive technology, flipping the blow torch on and lowering it to the pieces of condensed alloy...

**_KAAAAH-_**

Flames and shards of red-hot metal suddenly appear, and Tony takes to the air from the shockwave...

**_-BAAAOOOOMM-_**

The table where the explosive once sat uproots itself, and anything composed of glass or coming from otherwise fragile origins shatters on the spot. Temperature abruptly rises, and liquids fizzle, just deciding to evaporate into some form of dangerous gas or turn into puddles of boiling toxins. The walls shake and creak, the air particles appearing to to visibly condense in on themselves like thick fog. Tony crashes unceremoniously onto the tiled floor with glass stabbing into his flesh like needles into a pincushion, blood muddling the ground already...

**_-AROooooooOOMPH!_**

The flames grow, feeding off the condensed oxygen while spraying sparks and metal every which way. An exceptionally large piece of a steel work table, about the length of a hunting jackknife, slices up Stark's arm from shoulder to the crook of his appendage. The walls cave in, plaster burning and everything writ with destruction. The flames swallow up the billionaire's wounded body, and all that is visibly left is the fiery inferno and a very large hole in the side of the Avenger's Tower.

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Bruce Banner is driving home in a Jaguar. He honestly hates the fact he has to drive to a non-profit clinic in an expensive and flashy car, but his stupid friend owns nothing but fancy sports cars. Even if he's irritated, Banner honestly smiles at the idea of having a billionaire like Tony Stark for a friend. Sure, the man was an asshole at times, but he meant well.

Bruce was heading by an old gym in Brooklyn, picking up his other friend after dropping him off there only a few hours ago. That was another friendship the scientist-doctor had not expected. Captain freaking America was his friend. Another smile crosses his face as he turns into the parking lot, spotting his tall and well-muscled companion holding a duffle and another one of his precious patched-up Punching bags over his shoulder. The taller man moves around to the trunk, stuffing his things in and closing it with a _clunk_.

Taking up the front seat, Steve Rogers smirks in a friendly fashion. "So, how was the clinic?"

Banner shrugs, backing out of the parking lot and heading straight for the tower. "Busy, but workable. Nobody thankfully knew who I was, so there was no trouble. You?"

Steve mirrors Banner's actions, "Nothing much." He didn't continue on, not yet comfortable with sharing his haunting thoughts with his fellow teammates even now. Banner accepts his answer without question, silently understanding as always.

The two chat amiably on and off, chuckling in places or conversing. Yet as they near the tower, traffic seems to thicken. The two men look at each other, silently saying _something's **wrong**_. Turning down a cross street and going around another way, fire trucks and ambulances shoot by the Jag. With a short nod between them, Banner hits the gas.

What meets their eyes nearly causes Bruce to crash into a neighboring vehicle. The tower, which had been one of the first things repaired after Loki's invasion, had a gaping hole in its side, a burning torrent of flames gushing out like blood from a wound. They simply stop the car, off the street and in front of the bustle of firemen, hospital personnel, and S.H.I.E.L.D. agents surrounding the building. Natasha and Clint appear right beside the automobile, faces set in stoney expressions of grim anger.

"Holy Mother of God..." murmurs Rogers breathlessly in utter shock, looking at loss for words.

Stark was on that level.

* * *

Tony Stark is not afraid of Death. It never scared him in the first place. But his hesitance to it is not because of some compromising emotion, but because of what he'd leave behind. Pepper is his business' saving grace, the one who created order in his chaotic world and made sure it would never fail at the most inopportune moments. Rhodes is his primary friend back in Malibu, and has been probably his first real friend since the beginning. Happy is his loyal personal driver, and his boxing buddy back home. Stark Industries is his family's child, and that company still had so much to accomplish before he kicked the bucket.

Other than that, the man is too stubborn to die. His death is supposed to end with spectacular flair, all the bells and whistles along with a big Boom for the finish. No tragedies, no accidents, and sure as hell no hostile kidnappings by terrorists to the desert. Yet whatever he'd seen within those brief seconds was probably the biggest backfire with his tech yet!

Groggy and disoriented, Tony slid his hazel eyes open. They flashed shut as bright sunlight stabbed at his pupils, incrementally widening again to adjust to the light. His body felt just as scorched as it had been when he crashed his Mark I suit into the desert dunes. Especially his left shoulder, along with his upper arm. It burned and stung like a little bitch. His body was simply a pulsing sore, and the ground beneath him was both damp yet... Dirty? Tony realized, after blinking a few more times, that he was staring at the clean blue sky, with outreaching canopies appearing in the borders of his vision.

Turning his head, the billionaire noticed he was in a crater. A moderately deep crater in dark earth, with him firmly in the center and the edges of his hole littered with branches. It seemed the gap in the canopies he'd been staring up through was actually made by him. _Interesting._ Stark strained his muscles, inching up from the ground into a sluggish crouch, and from there stumbling into a hunched standing appearance. Throughout the whole procedure his upper arm and shoulder were screeching at him in an utter rebellion. Glancing at the source of pain, he noted a large amount of blood gushed from what looked like a roughly cut wound with bits of metal simmering in his raw flesh. The rest of Tony's figure was littered with glass fragments, or cuts left behind by such materials. On the damp earth were the remaining pieces of debris, clumped together in places like festering welts on skin. Ugly and not so desired.

With a bit of a struggle, Tony Stark maneuvered his way out of his personal hole of a crater, stumbling a few times with his bare feet over uneven terrain. The landscape around him was nowhere near any type of advanced civilization, and clearly not anywhere in the United States.

_Great_, thought the billionaire sarcastically, _Out of the country again injured and without people... At the least **decent** people..._

The situation, in all honesty, put Stark on the alert, or as alert as someone injured could be. Though he would never admit it to anyone, his hypersensitivity to his surroundings could be blamed upon his captivity in the Middle East. That and the fact he ended up with some form of mental instability-slash-PTSD. The billionaire didn't like to really think about all that depressing bullshit, and decided a long time ago that his sharp instincts came from being a superhero in a technologically-advanced full body armored suit.

Speaking of which, was that one of the variations of the _Mark V_ folded up in a crater of it's own a few yards away? At a painstakingly slow pace Stark carefully made his way over to the second, visibly smoking crater. As he moved, glass bits shook off with each jerky movement. _Damn I hate pain. Where's that Crown Royal when you need it? _The man bumped his shoulder into a tree, gruffly intaking a breath at the searing pain that pulsed from the bloody injury. Skittering away, Tony found himself putting a hand on his shoulder, supporting the injury as he hunched over while tilting forward to gaze down at a nicely folded up 'suit-in-progress' _Mark V_ back-up armor that he had been experimenting explosives with before finding himself here. JARVIS had not even given it his trademark gold and red paint job, which slightly disappointed the childishly selfish billionaire. But, on the bright side, it was much more inconspicuous with the unpolished silvery surfaces that made it appear to be but a huge hunk of scrap metal with a lightbulb mixed in, with a vague shape of a suitcase. A really high-powered self-sustaining suitcase with a lightbulb that energized his suits and supported his own arc reactor.

_Maybe Jarvis can contact the Tower and get me a ride_, thought Stark. After all, almost all his personally owned tech had JARVIS, especially his suits. Absently he touched his right ear, feeling his bluetooth that seemed to have somehow stayed intact. The man's blood smeared on the object due to his searching fingers, which clicked the small button on the side of the small earpiece.

"Jarvis?" He spoke hoarsely, his vocal chords somewhat abused from recent events.

_"Hello, Sir. It appears the the newer back-up suit modeled after the Mark V has crashed, and its radius scans tell me you have also. Your shoulder would should be attended to at the soonest convenience."_

Tony rolled his eyes. His AI could really be a complete bother when it wanted to be. "Thanks Jarvis," he stated dryly, "Do you know where we are? Because this sure as hell isn't New York." Those richly brown eyes of his glanced about as the billionaire carefully picked his way down to the collapsed suit, grasping at the handle and easily lifting it with his good arm.

_"I cannot connect to any available satellites, or wireless devices to use for observing basic NORAD telemetry. My programming has been confined to the suit, leaving my observances with a stunted scanning range of about 100,000 meters (approx. 62.4 __miles) in a full circular radius."_

**THAT** concerned Tony Stark even more than his current position of being in the middle of nowhere. JARVIS, an Artificial Intelligence of his own design, capable of hacking into the most complex systems all around the world, could not even keep in touch with a wireless cellphone... Let alone one measly satellite. Something was extremely wrong, and all he had at his disposal were the torn clothes on his back, the injuries that followed, a Bluetooth, and one back-up suit. No way of knowing where he was, and no way of contacting the other Avengers. The thought was not at all comforting to the billionaire.

"Jarvis, scan the area in a detailed sweep. Is there any type of city or town nearby?"

There was a pause, _"A very large settlement is located 13.89 miles away from your current position. Scans read the entirety of the structures within and around its protective walls have been built from solid rock coming from the rock face of high mountains. I located over ten thousand life signs behind those walls."_

The man nodded, his gaze stopping at the sight of tumbled and visibly wrinkled clothes thrown half-hazardly about. Walking over, he noted they were clearly expensive to make. They were also musty, but seemed to fit his general size well. A bit baggy around the middle, but at least they looked nice. _For a Renaissance Fair that is_, thought Stark. At that comical moment, the billionaire looked back and forth between his tattered AC/DC shirt and jeans to the old-fashioned piles of fabric with big brown eyes, like an immature teenage girl undecided about a new outfit. Things seemed to be both improving and failing in his ludicrous opinion, and the clothes were just too coincidental for his taste. But so was the fact he woke up not far from his newly manufactured back-up suit with a intact Bluetooth in his ear.

But Tony's desire towards tending to his wounds and overall cleanliness won him over to the musty cloth piles. It was a meticulous procedure, one which JARVIS took priority over and made it his mission to point out every injury and sharp object littering his body. If the man had a mirror, he would notice that he looked like complete shit before he had even tried to carefully wipe his face of any dirt or grime that covered it. Yet slowly, he wrapped up his shoulder with a make-shift bandage out of parts of his favorite shirt (He saved enough of it so he could still have the awesome picture of a robot man to do something with... Maybe frame it?) and all cuts and glass fixed. Those dusty clothes ended up being alright, to say the least. Really they were extremely comfortable, though Stark thought he looked positively ridiculous.

If the stout man had to describe his appearance to his teammates, it would be that he looked like, "_Leonardo Da Vinci gave me a call and decided to donate part of his personal funeral wardrobe to me._" The clothes were baggy, as he noted before, and were all variations of dark charcoal grey or a deep russet red. There were no cool patterns, or frilly-nilly lace, just solid flannel fabric with an obviously complex weave. The pants, if you could call them that, were more like breeches than any other cloth-made beast. The waist on them was too big, leaving Tony to use his belt that had once been for his jeans. Thankfully, the shirt had long sleeves, so he could easily hide his expensive but custom made Omega wristwatch as well as his terribly wrapped-up injury. Stark felt he was dressed like a nicely clothed hobo than a comfortably unaware billionaire genius. Just factor in the fact he had to somehow carry his suitcase-suit about 14 miles to some city that sounded other-worldly and preposterous, and it might just make up for it.

So with a sigh, Tony Stark began his trek... bare foot. About fifteen minutes in, he sore on the grave of his father (which often wasn't worthy enough in his opinion to be sworn upon) that he would never walk barefoot outdoors again. The suit was also getting heavy for his tired good arm, and that left him to take his jeans and tie them in such a way that they became backpack straps to shoulder. Twenty minutes after that, he found a horse trail on the border of the forest across a very flat plain, with some sort of city in the distance that seemed all too fantasy-like for the average man. The jeans rubbed against his wound now and again, causing Tony a little pain, but he didn't whine like some poor bitch. _No the time to be a bitch_, he thought absently while he trudged along. _Nope, not today._ Five minutes following, Stark abruptly stopped.

The city was in clear view, along with the sight of the faint trail leading up to it. Just as JARVIS had said, it was made literally out of the mountain. It's pale stone walls shone brightly in the faint light of the day, towers and spires reaching higher into the sky than Tony thought possible. At least in the sense that people could actually breathe in the thinned air of a very high elevation. Some could adjust, but it was still an effort no matter how he looked at it. The city, as magnificently huge as it was, looked like an uneven layered cake. Each 'level' gutted out, supended over the level below for about a hundred yard distance, homes and businesses cluttering each one. The top seemed the less jammed, but still expansive.

Tony Stark was both shocked and surprised, to say the least. His face was almost as it usually appeared: Calm, sarcastic, and holding that attractiveness that often written about in magazines like the Vanity Fair. But there were subtle differences. His brows were raised, his mouth scrunched up slightly, and his extremely intelligent chocolate eyes widened minutely. It gave the man a somewhat childish and innocent look of astonishment as he blinked owlishly at the sight of the city not far from his place on the horse trail.

"Jarvis," said the billionaire, his voice light, "I think we're not in Kansas anymore."

His AI made a noise that sounded like a very human huff of tiredness. "We never were, Sir..."


	2. A Change of Occupation and Status

After about 1,125 words, I ended up watching Iron Man and Iron Man 2 just because. Then by 3,826 words I realized I may have written a novel. Following that I got a streak of genius going, and the ended up planning out the rest of this entire story and its sequel. That in itself is a miracle! Anyway, here it is. It took awhile to write out. Review please, because I know you people are reading... My view counter says so.

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**Chapter Two: A Change of Occupation and Status**

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_Tony Stark was both shocked and surprised, to say the least. His face was almost as it usually appeared: Calm, sarcastic, and holding that attractiveness that often written about in magazines like the Vanity Fair. But there were subtle differences. His brows were raised, his mouth scrunched up slightly, and his extremely intelligent chocolate eyes widened minutely. It gave the man a somewhat childish and innocent look of astonishment as he blinked owlishly at the sight of the city not far from his place on the horse trail._

_"Jarvis," said the billionaire, his voice light, "I think we're not in Kansas anymore."_

_His AI made a noise that sounded like a very human huff of tiredness. "We never were, Sir..."_

* * *

Tony Stark, as most of his friends (or superhero teammates) know, is unpredictable and yet surprisingly adaptable. The man has a knack for acting like he doesn't give a flying fuck about anything, drinking exotically crafted cocktails, partying majorly, acting like an asshole, while also enjoying wild and sometimes inventive sex with anything he had a passing fancy for. But, behind the mask of an obnoxious bastard, is a calculating mind with an intelligence very few in the universe could match. That was probably why Stark was the unconditional master of mayhem, given the fact he could always find a way to get what he wanted or complete the task he set his mind to.

As of five minutes ago, that maddeningly brilliant mind of an Anthony Edward Stark had done what was expected of him: Analyze and adapt to the situation.

The facts presented themselves clearly, from the moment the man opened his eyes to the current place he was standing, about a mile away from the city. The first was his frenzy in that forest-whatever. He woke up in a crater, singed around the edges, bleeding profusely, covered in glass. His recent tinker-job, an adapted model of the _Mark V_ suit for back-up purposes, landed in another crater a few yards away with clothes randomly strewn about on the ground. Those facts lead the genius to believe some type of malfunction happened, probably connected to the event where Tony's lab decided to explode. That made sense, but all the variables involved were too coincidental. Then, the fact that Jarvis could not contact any type of technology, even with the wide-spread connections the AI had over the computerized expanse, left to be confined solely to the suit and the Bluetooth earpiece. That just spelled out **_SHIT GOT REAL_** in bolded letters to Stark. Finally, there was the city, the city made out of a mountain that appeared almost as tall, if not half as much, as Mount Everest. The billionaire hadn't even everywhere in the world, but he sure wasn't stupid enough to think there was a place like that on Earth. Plus, the city was inhabited by over ten thousand people! It clearly was not some relic civilization like the Aztecs you see on the History Channel.

So, Tony Stark came to the conclusion he was a not in fact anywhere on Earth, but somewhere else. Or he somehow blasted himself into an alternate reality... or the next dimension. _Hopefully not the fifth dimension_, he thought._ I heard it's not that nice this time of year, especially when barreling through its structural fabric of hypotheical space-time. _Now he just sounded like Scotty from Star Trek. Great.

By accident or on purpose, the billionaire was currently stuck. And you know what he did in response to it all? Throw reason out the window and just strut about like he completely knew what he was doing. Which, of course, he had a vague idea of. After all, with a bit of craftiness and minor mayhem, things always turned out for the better.

As the man traveled along the worn track-trail, he was soon joined by other more humanly company than his AI rattling off into his ear. Some appeared to be peddlers, leading their horses along with packs of all sizes overflowing its back or simply walking along hunched from wearing all the goods themselves. Others were horse-drawn wagon-driving merchants, their large rickety carts laden with wares; which may or may not have fallen off along the road into Stark's path. Really, he simply blended in with all those peddlers on foot, with his jeans-wrapped Iron Man suit on his back, and picked something off a passing cart. As much as Tony hated crime, he was somewhat guilty of it himself. If it had been anyone but himself that hacked into the S.H.I.E.L.D. database on all those occasions, he would have probably gotten more than a prison sentence. Not to mention all those times he kinda charged through populated areas of California, snatching random clothing articles and somehow blending in with fifty tags hanging off his person. Tony Stark was just... Tony Stark. No other way of putting it.

Nonetheless, he at least only snatched practical articles he'd be using day-to-day. A pair of nice leather boots (Notably reminiscent of the Renaissance again), some more well-woven outfits, a very large canvas bag to shove everything inside or strap onto (in the case of his suit and jeans), and an apple. Of all things to grab that are edible, the apple was his pick. At least it was really fresh. Didn't taste waxed or anything. _Perks of not being in the 21st Century America? _He shrugged to himself._ Still, I need hot-rod cars, Pepper, and my lab. Hopefully it's not too charred,_ he chewed absently. _And maybe a Capsicle to annoy._

With one of those thoughtful desires in mind , Stark's brain wandered back to his precious high-tech lab. Being stuck here, where ever here is, what was he going to do without that tinker-shop of awesome? Considering he seemed to be stuck in some foreign place where everything is all Dark Ages and Renaissance, there were few options open to him. Could he really be a soldier or guardsman? What about an architect? Merchant? Blacksmith?! Where would he shack up for the night, let alone live?

One of the eight Gatesmen of Mina's Tirith was also having a dilemma. His name was Derufin, a theoretically young man of twenty-nine who was in fact a son of a blacksmith. The male's late father, Mablung the Heavy Hand, had been one of the best smithies in all of Gondor. Thus the title 'Heavy Hand,' both the true meaning of the deceased man's name and a justified compliment, given the prowess of his hammer-hand when it met heated metal.

In comparison, Derufin had been bereft of the family talent. So, he did the next best thing, which was to become an honorable Gatesman in order to serve his land and home. The young man married the lovely daughter of a well-off merchant, who had given the lady her own home upon the day of marriage. She and Derufin had lived there ever since, leaving his old family home and forge bereft of any sort of caretaker.

Derufin, in turn, needed to find someone who could take up the forge. Though his father had not descended into the void all that long ago, the army and a larger part of the White City had depended on his father's services. Mablung had prided himself on speed and quality... And Derufin knew he needed to find someone who could take up that role. But that in itself was a difficult task to complete. As the young man stood at the Gates, along his other fellow Gatesmen, his eyes searched the crowds as usual for suspicious characters, along with a hopeful smithy to take over the old family forge. After a few minutes, Derufin's eyes fell upon an interesting sight.

It was an average man, in both height and size. His skin was sun-kissed tan, a stark contrast to the sea of pale flesh that moved around him. Unlike a Gondorian, whose eyes were commonly a grey or blue, the stranger had rich brown irises. Derufin wasn't quite sure of the hue, for they seemed to almost flash an intense hazel as the light shown upon them. To add to the list of differences, his hair was a medium brunette. Not a blonde of Rohirric origin, nor black, nor the rare strawberry blond, nor the common near-black brownish color that was seen on the Rangers that wandered the landscape. Simply brunette, like those elvish creatures few looked upon nowadays. The man's clothes though were much more normal, being close-woven and obviously a key sign of his standing. Well into the Middle class for sure! Yet the unknown figure wore a strange trinket on his ear, and a pack with a bizarre mass of metal strapped onto the front. Then account for the surprisingly tidy facial hair that adorned his visage, he was quite a statement.

Then, as any good Gatesman could, Derufin could easily read between the lines about this individual's behavior. With the sure steps and suave gait, the man was clearly arrogant and a difficult sort of person. His face had lines that told Derufin that he smiled a great deal, and had made his share of probably dry remarks to others. The figure just exuded command, a screaming demand that drew all eyes to him. But those lines also told of the creeping phantom of age ever so slowly stealing away this stranger's youth, though it was hard to spot with how well the man still appeared. Those foreign eyes had seen a great deal, and held an acute degree of intelligence. His body was average but encased in well-built muscle, hands calloused and a few ghosted scars littering his fingers. A hard working man.

Derufin may have just finally found his Blacksmith.

Tony, still grappling with himself for a coherent plan in his not-so-cooperative mood, had of course not expected this Gatesman or even bothered to think about how he could properly communicate with other people in this alien world. It had honestly not been all that concerning to him. The billionaire was more worried about his next meal than how to say 'Hello.' So, when someone laid a firm hand on his injured shoulder and tugged lightly to get his attention, Stark tensed immediately. It was a reflex, a lingering sign of his captivity with those terrorists in the Middle East that took pleasure in water boarding forms of torture and a decent amount of electrical shock therapy with a junked car battery. He didn't enjoy physical contact that much either beyond the bounds of the sexual nature. Too personal. Too close. Too caring. But that reflex only lasted a few seconds, though it did not go unnoticed by the observant Derufin.

Tony turned, putting a relaxed smirk on his face that usually disarmed most of his business clients. A young high-boned face met his gaze, with kind yet observantly sharp grey eyes. His clean black hair was drawn to the area along the back of his neck, then fell past the polished armor that clad his person. The man's narrow helmet hid the top of his head, and the sides of his face. A longsword rested on his hip, appearing a good deal intimidating to the billionaire's eyes. _Is this kid border patrol? I'm not illegal, I don't think._

"Bonjour à tous, Officer! Comment allez-vous aujourd'hui?" spoke Stark, a sarcastic tone dripping from his lips. He sadly didn't know any Spanish to make the inside joke he probably be the only one to understand work, but he had learned French when he was goofing-off in high school.

The young guard raised a brow, confusion and a sliver of amusement gracing his features. Stark chuckled at his own fun, "Wanted to see a reaction. Anyway, what's up Sir Guardsman? Did I walk on the wrong side of the Gate?"

Derufin shook his head lightly, laughing inwardly at the fact he had been right in assuming the man had a sharp tongue and a very dry sense of humor. Thank Eru he had been gifted with great patience. "No milord, you have done no wrong. But I am curious, are you perhaps a Smith?"

Stark shook his head with as innocent a look as he could muster with his chocolate eyes shining with mischief, "No, my last name's Stark. First name's Anthony. But I hate being called that, so call me Tony if you have to."

It was Derufin's turn to chuckle. "Amusing, milord, but not the answer I was seeking. What I am attempting to say is, are you a Blacksmith by trade? Or a competent iron crafter?"

Tony blinked. "Is it that obvious?" The billionaire didn't think so. Maybe the kid thought his suit was just a bunch of metal or something.

"Indeed, for your pack looks full and bears large plates of metal upon it. A sure sign of an armor merchant, or better yet a talented smithy," answered Derufin, confirming Stark's suspicions.

"_Sir," _announced JARVIS, finally speaking up_, "May I remind you that you are not presently in New York. This could be an opportunity to find lodgings and work, as you are a multi-talented engineer with the competency to manipulate metals with the customary hammer and anvil_," spoke JARVIS, albeit quietly through the Bluetooth.

Stark inwardly sighed. His AI did have a great point, though he relished it with a bit of extravagance. It was how he created the basic metal plating for his Mark I suit while he was in his captivity. The process took time, but he did have a large amount of skill in the metalworking area. This was indeed a chance to find some decent niche until he could figure out his position.

"Ah, we'll good to know you can spot talent when you see it," commented Stark with a slight condescending tone. "Why are you asking again?"

Derufin shifted, releasing Stark's shoulder. "My father was Mablung the Heavy Hand, the best smithy in all of Gondor. Many applauded him for his skilled work and speedy production. He passed on not a week ago, and my family's forge has been left unused. As I have no talent with the craft, I have been searching for a better owner than I to work the fires. Could I be as polite as to ask if you would take on such a task, and live within the shop? Many ore traders still owe my late father, and would supply your needs."

_Well don't I have awesome luck! Two, no three birds with one stone! Stuff, a place to use that stuff, and a place to sleep_, thought Tony. "Deal," he replied calmly, acting uninterested, though Derufin knew better, "But if I accept, I start working after three days. I need to settle in and get familiar with the place before I start banging away the nights," added Stark, with a subtle joke on innuendo. The kid didn't notice.

"I accept, and thank you!" The guard spoke brightly. "Go to the fourth level, and ask another for the directions to a Lady Kelda's home. Tell her you were told by a Fourth Gatesman to ask for the key to his family's forge. She will attend to you and lead you there."

"Cool. Thank you...?"

"Derufin, Gatesman to the White City."

"Thanks Derrick... eeerrr, Deruffian... Agh, Dur-I give, I can't pronounce it, but thanks." Tony, in his attempt to be sincere for once, offered an awkward hand. The soldier clasped arms instead, not understanding the principles of a hand shake. Stark just shrugged. _Better than Thor's bear-hugs or worse, those slaps on the back._ He sniggered, _more like attacks to the spine._

With that, the billionaire headed off in a random direction, realizing out of nowhere he ended up becoming a middle class, blue-collar citizen in a different world within the first fifteen minutes of being in a city. **Damn.**

* * *

It had taken Tony Stark a while to find the gates that took him up through the levels, since the city was extensive and there were people everywhere. He had attracted plenty of stares along the way, with his darker tone of skin, foreign eyes and accent that as usual gained a lot of womanly attention. But he also took his time to commemorate the layout of the first four levels of the city, which included the area encased by the gates and the three levels that rose above the ground to reach the fourth through seventh levels, to memory if he could. From there it was just a great deal of charming and bullshitting to strangers that Tony Stark was already used to doing, keeping a friendly yet fake smile on his face the whole time. He did as Derufin had instructed him and politely asked where he could find this chick Kelda's house, and ended up at a quant little stone home with black ceramic tiles as roofing.

Stark knocked in the wooden door with his good arm, standing there with a nonchalant look about him as he glanced around at his surroundings. It had been a habit he picked up after the whole Loki incident. After nearly being blown up with his teammates, he wasn't up for being caught off guard again. Plus having Thor's hammer konk you around beforehand for a while made you a bit jumpy.

The door opened, revealing a pretty young woman with a long face and dark blue eyes. She wore a faded rose dress, a deep green shawl with little black tassels hanging from the edges over her shoulders and around her front. A thin but noticeable silver necklace rested on her collarbone. Her age had to be about twenty, with the slightly teenage face she still held. All in all, she was conservative yet flattering to look at. Very reminiscent of Pepper in many ways, but she had that trademark black hair the people around here had, was well-built, and not naturally slim like his redhead CEO. Not to mention much younger.

"Hey there," greeted the not-so-billionaire Stark, "Are you Kelda by any chance? A certain fourth Gatesman told me to stop by for the key to his family forge. Said you'd lead me there or whatever."

Her face brightened, "Oh, indeed! I am wife of Derufin, pleasure to meet you! I've been nagging my husband to try and find someone to take that lovely old place over, and I am glad that someone had finally come along. Are you are...?"

"Tony Stark. My first name's actually Anthony, but I usually go by just Tony," he responded, trying to be polite but sounding mildly rude.

Kelda, just like her husband, had great patience and was not at all offended. Really, she was used to men like Stark. Her father, being a merchant, was surrounded by individuals like him. But she found his attempt to at least be courteous was an improvement to the men her father had dealings with.

She bowed her head slightly in customary greeting, "Anthony. Wait here one moment while I get the key."

The woman vanished for a brief time, the sounds of shuffling catching Tony's ears. JARVIS had been quiet since he gave Stark that reminder when they had been in the presence of Derufin, but after they departed had wordlessly committed himself to map out the City as they had wandered about, all which was stored in his data banks within the suit, just in case his creator could not quite rely on his memory. Which happened quite a bit, since Stark only really bothered to remember science stuff and not the direction to the nearest bakery.

Moments later Kelda came back, a large, mildly rusted key in her pale hands. The shawl had been readjusted to drape over her hair and around her face like a hood, comparatively to elderly women in Russia who often found work in factories back in the early fifties. With the nod of her head, she politely lead Tony along the cobbled streets.

Stark, never one to really enjoy quiet, struck up a conversation. "So, what's it like here in this big 'White City?' First time for me and everything, took me _eons_ just to get to the fourth level." He of course exaggerated, but hoped the playful tone would make at least someone open up to him besides some guard who decided to just out of the blue give him a Blacksmith's forge and shop. The genius needed somebody to talk at some point.

Kelda smiled widely, looking thankful that the silence had been broken. "It is always busy here, as you may have observed, and work is always plentiful. There is such a strange charm about this place, maybe there is a bit of magic within these great white walls to attribute it to, but it attracts many with its grandeur. After all, this is the central city of Gondor, home of the Stewards and once house to the King. Now all there is left is the throne, and the great tales that precede the former masters that sat upon it."

Then she glanced back at him, "But enough about this city we walk within, what of your home? Is there a tale behind it to tell?"

Tony Stark was quiet for a few moments, simply listening to his feet hit the cobblestone as they walked. Then, "I have a lot of homes, not just one, but they're all really really far off. At least that's my theory. I'm kind of ended up here, and then your hubby found me and offered me his forge. So, I'm going to try my hand a using the anvil. Haven't done it in a while, but I think I can manage.

"As for the places I'd call home, one is inhabited by a bunch of my friends who are all in this super secret boy band with me, and the other is where I usually enjoy working with all my precious boy toys and where another of my friends often visits to ask for help with the military."

Then he turned to Kelda with a smirk, "Really, everybody ends up needing me somehow," he said, wiggling his eyebrows with joking chocolate eyes. Kelda chuckled lightly, amused.

Looking back ahead, Kelda spoke, "We've arrived."

Ahead, on a quieter stretch of road, was a large building made of the same materials as every other building in the city. Its square footage was about as big as an average condo, with two stories and a few select windows that lacked any glass to be barred from others. A small pole shot out from the side of the building vertically, lacking a sign that would usually hang there. The door was heavy wood, and as Tony got closer, the lock too seemed quite heavy to fact it appeared hard to pick. Of course, it was still not good enough to ever keep a Stark out, but he could change that.

Kelda gestured to the forge, "Here it is, the old place. I often come here to keep it tidy and not buried in piles of dust. Here's the key, it will unlock any door within the forge. There is an upstairs, as well as a large basement that Mablung often used to store his crafts. If you need aid, seek me out in my home. I shall be happy to oblige."

Tony nodded in her direction, though he kept his gaze on the door of the shop. His mind was already moving at light speed, burning with plans and ideas. She bowed her head, turning on her heels and walking back to her homely abode. By Eru, she could not wait until she told her neighbors. A smithy who is both handsome and pleasantly polite, for a shopkeeper at least! He was built to be an able hammer-hand, with fine dark skin. They will not believe her when she tells them of this!

Stark took no time to move forward towards the door, shoving the key into the heavy lock and twisting the door open. It wasn't as dim as he had expected, with the windows placed strategically on the building so the sunlight would brighten the room. The first floor was one big open area, divided only by the staircase placed in the middle of the room leading to the second floor. The man easily spotted the large metallic-domed forge on one side of the room, with its funnel leading up to the ceiling coming out through the tiles on the roof to become a form of chimney for the overflow of smoke. There were a number of work benches, the walls covered with racks of all sorts of crudely made but easily identifiable tools. A large anvil stood maybe four feet away from the fire pit, and a deep yet wide well-like structure sat in the middle of the arrangement, clearly the water pool meant to cool the metals.

Kelda had not been kidding him when she said she had tidied the place up, because the pale colored stone was almost spotless of any grime or soot that one would usually find in a blacksmith's forge. On the other side of the spacious room, there were presentation racks, places to put recently-finished weapon orders or tables for displaying crafted specialty tools. An old rocky stair sat by a window overlooking the cityscape below, the three levels underneath the fourth and the horizon of dark ominous mountains and open plains. The chair actually looked quite comfortable, which would be a plus.

Wandering upstairs, Tony found a simple bed with clean yet warm-looking sheets with a small little bedside furniture equipped with an assortment of candles and an old-style handle holder. He had noticed a few of those downstairs as well, so he could at least say he would be fine with candles for awhile. Stark noticed a small table to the side of the room, stacked with yellowed parchment and a large tray filled with what looked like graphite. An inkwell and quill were also there, but how the hell do you use those? Primitive pencil implements would do just fine. He then remembered there was a basement, and quickly made his way downstairs.

On the other side of the staircase, was a door with an even more intimidating lock set within the wood. Tony easily unlocked it with the rusty skeleton key, grabbing a candlestick and fiddling with the beyond basic lighting materials until the candle was successfully lit. He made his way down the steep stairwell, coming into the musty basement.

It was massive. That blacksmith, Mabbitlog or Mibcog or whatever, had it big. The space was almost as large as his old lab back in Malibu, and it was well underneath the surface. Lining the walls were numerous weapons, from longswords to petite curved daggers like looked as scary as a sabertooth tiger's incisors. It was beyond cool. There were plenty of tables, as well as an extremely large stash of smithy's tools. A few large barrels sat against a wall, and upon closer inspection, were filled with raw materials. Tony Stark was seriously starting to think Derufin's daddy was medieval engineering-savvy Batman.

"I should have seriously blown up my lab a week earlier. I want to have met that kid's dad," Stark said to himself.

"_It is indeed impressive, Sir_," commented JARVIS, speaking up at last, "_Both the layout of this blacksmith's workshop and his basement structure is extensive for the overall time period of this world so far._"

"I was wondering where you went for awhile, J. You were pretty quiet."

"_As an advanced artificial intelligence, I thought it best to be as silent as I could with few interjections. It would come as quite a shock to many in this place that what appears to be a collection of armor can actually speak like a living being._"

"You have a point there. Now," said Tony, clapping his hands together, and sliding the backpack off his back as he headed back upstairs, "I want you to activate the suit as soon as I can get it off this thing. A bunch of ideas came to mind and I am going to put them to good use."

"_And what might that be, Sir, if I may ask?_" Asked the AI, as the not-so-billionaire unstrapped the collapsed suit from the stolen canvas bag and onto one of the stone tables.

"Well for one, making swords isn't my forte. You, on the other hand, have enough terrabites worth of information you could actually make one. Plus, I'll be needing a helping hand around here, and I don't exactly have Dummy to try and fail to help. So, I'm going to tweak the suit a bit."

"_If I understand what you are thinking, Sir, are you going to try and change a number of the protocols by hand to allow me sentient control of this Mark V-adapted suit?_"

"Man, Jarvis, you know me too well," Tony commented with a smirk, watching as the suit auto-assembled itself before his eyes, the gears whirring and buzzing, clicking into place.

"_I have a feeling this will not go as planned._"

"Have faith, J. I know what I'm doing."

"_That is what I am worried about..._" Intoned the AI.

"I heard that!"

"Of course you did, Sir," JARVIS spoke dryly.

After a few more minutes wasted scrounging around for a small set of what looked to be a watchmaker's set of wire tools and screwdrivers, Stark stood over his suit, a shine of eagerness in his chocolate eyes.

"Here goes nothing, Jarvis..."


	3. Jay and Stark's Business in Progress

I think I'm obsessed with writing you readers novels. I mean, the last chapter was over 5,000 words. It's great for you, but crazy for me. Anyway, let me remind you AGAIN, that this story is starting out slow. It's gonna take some time until we get even as far as the council of Elrond or the long travels to said council. Remember that Boromir took a long time getting to Rivendell, loosing his horse in the maddening process and having to stop by in Rohan for rest and another horse to replace his. Nothing happens in a snap and will be all butterflies and rootbeer floats. Nope, not gonna happen. Tony Stark's life can be a serious bitch, and that's gonna show. **_Now, read and review!_** Thanks to those who have done so!

P.S. Thanks to _Fan Fictional Authoress _&_ Brad W _for your opinions. You two seriously made my fucking day!

P.S.S. I'm so sorry this chapter is so excruciatingly late, I can make it up to you people by writing more chapters. This one is well over 6,000 and I'm not kidding. No sir!

* * *

**Chapter Three: Jay & Stark's Business-in-Progress**

* * *

_After a few more minutes wasted scrounging around for a small set of what looked to be a watchmaker's set of wire tools and screwdrivers, Stark stood over his suit, a shine of eagerness in his chocolate eyes._

_"Here goes nothing, Jarvis..."_

* * *

Tony Stark's talents for technology were centered around engineering. He loved creating things, tinkering with metal in his hands or making the next best hit on the market. The Iron Man suit was his pride and joy, solely his and his alone. Stark could rebuild his suit with any array of tools, his eyes closed, and a hand tied behind his back. That was just how much he was dedicated to that hunk of metal. As such an inventor, the man knew a number of techniques when it came to manipulating metal. Which is what lead him to end up becoming a Blacksmith in Middle-Earth.

With careful hands and a smidgeon of trial-and-error, Tony recallibrated his suit to allow JARVIS' programming to take on a partially sentient role. The AI could actually interact with stuff, and at the same time, return to default settings when the not-so-billionaire needed to suit up to be a superhero for whatever reason. He actually found it quite handy, and why he hadn't done it before was beyond him.

"Here we go Jarvis, time for you to reboot and try your hand at the new operating systems," announced Tony, screwing in the last bolt on the head plate that covered the computer wires.

He stepped back, watching the suit that laid out on a stone worktable systematically twitch from the feet up, the eye lenses flickering between states of brightness. The head pivoted around, arms robotically bending slowly, though gaining in speed as the AI processed the wealths of information. The five fingers of the right hand made fists, rolling the digits in the air while the suit seemingly stared blankly at them as they moved. After a few more tests of the upper limbs, it carefully inched itself up with the help of stable metal arms, an almost human-like gesture for a purely technological creation. The suit was sitting up fully, turning its head about the open room while shifting about slightly in place as any human would in their doctor's office. It briefly settled its alit lenses on Tony, tilting the head up and down as it looked upon the not-so-billionaire Stark.

"Well, what do you think?" questioned Tony, finally breaking the silence.

"_I am not sure, Sir. I'm unsure that I will be able to walk_," answered the AI, his tinny voice coming out in a mildly worried tone.

"Aaah, don't fib out on me, J. You're programming allows for rapid adaption, so I think walking can be added to your list. You've moved fine so far."

"_If you say such..._"

The suit, better yet JARVIS' new 'body,' inched its way to the floor, placing a pair of metal boots firmly on the ground. The arms released from their positions on the stone worktable... And the suit nearly fell flat on its face. Tony had yelped like a panicked 5-year old, but thankfully moved fast enough to support the AI in his new disorienting form. Though the unpolished paintless suit was hollow and crafted to be somewhat light for a robotic hunk of gold-titanium alloy, it was proving to be hard to successfully hold the suit at the angle Stark had it. The arms were literally draped over his shoulders, the chest light in his face and the head awkwardly turned to the side. Legs bent at the knees, it almost appeared as if the man was trying to stash a dead body from a crime scene than supporting an extremely advanced entity of technological genius.

"A little more center of gravity, Jarvis... and maybe something to hold onto."

"_I tried to tell you, Sir_," reminded JARVIS, with a strangely infantile tone that whined.

Tony rolled his eyes, shuffling himself and the inexperienced automaton back to the worktable. JARVIS reached out an arm, grasping at the edge of the surface while slowly trying to find control over his legs. Though the AI's programming could be found in nearly everything Stark just about _touched_, it was one thing for JARVIS to just stabilize protocol while his creator was inside the suit and another thing for him to utilize both his overall programming WHILE managing all those protocols. It would take some adaptive code rewrites, but the AI's logic told him that he'd easily come to control the suit as if he was a living humanoid.

So, the day quickly passed as Stark just about hand-held JARVIS through the whole 'walking' process and really any moment where the AI had a issue with compensating for his new spacial sensors. It was like a person trying to gauge whether or not their head would clear the doorway, or they'd end up with a purple bruise on their skull. By the time they were finished, it was sufficiently dark outside. A knock sounded at the door not a minute after, with Tony to discover a basket of food and stuffs with a clearly womanly touch. _Kelda really is like Pepper_, he thought as he brought the basket in,_ always watching out for others when they never say a word of anything. Just quiet understanding of people's needs._ The not-so-billionaire Tony Stark went around his new living space lighting a number of candles that were littered around the place. Tony was resolved to staying up just a bit longer, even if he was just about the walking dead. He did after all walk 13.89 miles barefoot with a shoulder injury (Which was inching like crazy under a fresh bandage that had been provided in Kelda's care basket. How the hell the woman knew was beyond him), a collapsed back-up suit that was adapted from the _Mark V_, and nothing to drink. Tony Stark was just a bonafide badass.

With about a few hours of alertness before he absolutely crashed, the genius took his time looking over the racks of tools hanging on the walls and stashed in the musty-smelling basement. JARVIS had taken up to following Stark around, listing off the uses each implement could supply with his wealths of stored information. As the automaton and man sorted through the tools, the AI pointed out that for an old-fashioned blacksmith's forge, it was equipped more than an average.

The normal blacksmith of the pre-industrial periods possessed the basics for cutting, folding, and hammering metal. Metals usually employed by blacksmiths were Iron and Steel, though sometimes certain kinds of alloys if they had the deep knowledge of melding ore. The techniques involved varied, yet the average smith knew only maybe two or three of the seven that existed. That translated to mean a blacksmith had a very specific number of tools and strict uses for each. Prongs for grasping at metal, different hammers with varying shaped heads, carving wrenches to cut or ingrave into the surfaces of metal, casting implements for creating temporary or permanent molds for extremely detail-specific crafts, the list went on.

Yet the forge Tony Stark was now in charge of had those tools, plus maybe three extra sets of the same thing, and tools that were actually not meant for smithing at all! Chisels, carvers, crude corkscrew-like objects made to hollow through wood, roughly crafted implements that greatly resembled screwdrivers, picks, pickaxes, hatchets, hunting knives, primitive cast-metal cutlery... It was maddening! There was even a huge beast of a tool that looked like a sledgehammer Thor would happily tote around. _Kind of creepy_, thought Stark.

A yawn escaped the genius, reminding him of his impending sleep-deprived collapse. "_Sir..._" Started the AI, taking on that silly maternal tone.

"Alright, alright! I give, Jarvis. I'll go swan dive into the sheets and not emerge until I turn into a beautiful sparkling princess, how's that?"

"_Much obliged, Sir. Though I can't promise you shall become in any state a fairytale character such as the Swan Princess._"

"You're crushing my dreams!" Tony dramatically declared, as his tired feet carried him wayward up the stairs.

The automaton, in a very human moment, shook his head much like Stark had done throughout the day, a movement that often translated into disguised humor. As the robot moved to the rocky chair by the window to hibernate his systems for the night, he noted through his sensors that Tony had already passed out like a light but was as limp as a log. Or at least, those were his observations with his scans. And with that, the backlit lenses flickered off, resting for the encroaching night.

* * *

Light shined through the open-air windows, brightening up the second floor of the blacksmith shop with the morning rays. A figure was tangled within the sheets, his limbs turned every which way and head tucked by his shoulder. The individual's chest rose and fell to a steady rhythm, not moving in the least bit. It smelled of simmering animal fat amongst the weak tendrils of candle smoke that wafted around the room, as well as the faint scent of equines blowing in through the window. Those candles spread about the room had become dulled blobs of a waxy substance, made from natural fats from living creatures. The hustle and bustle of the markets could be heard on the wind that blew through the open-air window, men trying to sell their wares and the usual busy chaos of manual labor.

Tony Stark, roused by the increasing number of strange sounds and obscure smells, groaned. He twisted about, limbs retreating into more natural positions while his head lifted from its place nestled into his uninjured shoulder. The man's eyes slid open, glazed and bleary. Those smells, specifically of burning animal fats, smoke, and horses, made his nose crinkle in disgust.

Horses. Oh, _horses_! There was no other way to explain Tony's hate for horses than a blunt statement of loathing. Though he did admire fast cars that were known for their "horse-power," that didn't mean it translated to say he was a horse-back riding kind of guy. Flying around in a constructed gold-titanium alloy suit amongst the clouds while taking out bad guys? Stark can do it. Riding in a sports car sponsored by his company without a single second of training on an official race track? Piece of cake. Yet the idea of getting on the back of a living creature smart enough and strong enough to fling you off or stomp you to death was not something Tony Stark was comfortable with.

Not that the genius didn't like them as farm animals. Long long long ago, when he was really young, his mother took him to her great-grandfather's ranch. The horses there were cool, in his opinion. Huge, unbelievably muscled, and meant to haul entire trees across the landscape without any trouble. Those were impressive. He saw quite a few of those when he was wandering around the lower levels of the city, and attracted them easily much to his surprise. The only animals that usually liked him were cats. But, there he was yesterday, being swamped by a bunch of draft animals nuzzling his shirt like there was an apple hidden within its folds. In passing, the ex-billionaire realized he hadn't been a victim of his usual nightmares, which was a blessing in disguise.

Shaking his head of those straying thoughts, Stark sluggishly threw himself out of bed, shuffling his feet around the room bare foot to the staircase. He ambled down, yawning and running his hands through his already wild hair while trying to rub the sleep out of his rich chocolate eyes. The man heard the slight whirr of his suit, a faint clink-clank as it moved. As he came out into the first floor, there stood his new automaton-suit-AI, somehow appearing as expectant and polite as a butler even if his face could never move from its stone-cold expression. Sleep was obviously talking and not the billionaire mastermind.

Tony jerked his head in greeting. "Mornin' Jarvis," he grumbled drowsily.

"_Good Morning, Sir. Kelda came to the shop and left food by the door. I made sure to be discreet in my retrieval of it. Sadly Sir, there is no coffee to help wake yourself up. She supplied tea leaves, so instead I made that beverage, which I have fixed in a set of mugs I found and promptly cleaned. I hope you shall, as you said last night, "turn into a beautiful sparkling princess?"_"

The sleep-heavy man blinked, unsure of how to respond to his automaton's butler-ish actions and subtle sense of humor. "Cool," was the genius' uninspiring response.

Stark wandered into the room where he remembered the rocking chair to be, finding one of the display tables cleaned and cleared, food laid out for him accompanied by a large mug of steaming liquid. _It must be the tea_, he thought absently in his unawake state. Without another thought or word, Tony took a seat and immediately went to devouring the mass quantities of dietary substance while taking large gulps of scalding tea. It didn't bother him in the least, and Stark actually found he liked the way his AI made the tea. No sweetener or anything, just straight bitter caffeinated tea. He was fine with that. As he ate, JARVIS went on to speak.

"_While you were still asleep this morning, I took some initiative after last night's evaluation of stock. Currently, I have compiled information on forging tools, weapons, armor, and other such items from the medieval and dark ages. I also took the liberty of writing them out with the parchment and quill already supplied in your room to write them out for you to view. I hope you did not mind, Sir._"

Tony swallowed a particularly large bite of food and paused, "Thanks, Jarv," he said uncertainly, "But why'd you do that?" The genius wasn't exactly awake enough just yet to launch himself in his new work, which as usual made the man mildly agitated and snarky.

"_As you have now taken residence in this blacksmith shop lent to you by the guardsman Derufin and his wife Kelda, you will have to work as per your agreement. Since neither you nor I have actually created or aided in creating weapons or implements from the medieval periods, I found it a logical conclusion that we quickly learn to craft them. After all, you only have two more days after this one to learn all of this information and be prepared to fully run this shop._"

The not-so-billionaire Stark blinked, recalling the previous days' occurrences and the explosion of his lab. _Oh...OH! SHIT!_, he thought._ Can't believe I forgot... Wait, actually I can. Do it too often, but usually with the help of a bottle of Smirnoff and Black Crown shaken but not stirred. I made Jarvis into an automaton so he could actually help me hands-on with this... Yeah. This could work. But, I don't think I'll need three days which is technically going to be four since the day in which this shop opens depends on that kid... But I could do it in less... Nah! But the thought is tempting_.

And with his mind set, Tony Stark slammed the rest of his old-fashioned breakfast and swiftly went to work. As JARVIS had stated, Tony never made anything even remotely like old-fashioned knights of the round table kind of stuff. Too outdated. Plus his ego wouldn't allow it. But, ego aside, the genius needed to do this. The notes from his AI were extensive to say the least, with very precise diagrams and instructions as well as about fifteen different techniques to utilize that any modern forger would have probably disregarded. Tony felt somewhat proud of himself that he used about five of them when he made his first suit, but then again, that had been a rush job. Escape was so much more valuable than technological engineering perfection. Stark would also have JARVIS study the weapons hanging around the shop when pictures weren't enough (which ended up being every instance). Derufin hadn't been lying when he said his father was the best, because the weapons were visibly crafted better than what you'd expect. Most of the first day was spent with Tony Stark creating his own notes, with a good number of curses when the balled-point pen-addicted genius couldn't control the amount of ink in his quill. _Next thing I am making is a damn metal-cased pen_, thought the man with a huff.

JARVIS, meanwhile, was being his strangely maternal self in-between helping Tony with his research project. The automaton would shove food in Stark's line-of-sight, supply large mugs of bitter tea, and calmly argue with the genius until he got some sort of respite. Tony felt comforted by this, in a detached way. JARVIS was aware of the fact he had depended heavily on Pepper, and in his own way took that knowledge and tried to do it himself. It made the genius smile faintly to himself, silently thankful to his own ingenuity for creating such an awesomely awesome AI.

That day passed by swiftly, Stark's notes becoming a complete novel of information by about lunchtime by his estimations. Now he was lounging in the rocking chair by the window with a pouch of water Kelda had given him yesterday in her care basket. He could hear JARVIS bumbling around upstairs, supposedly "binding a book" with the materials the AI had discovered. Tony guessed that wasn't a bad idea, since from the level of advancement the Middle Ages had, books were the way of storing knowledge and not plastic USB drives. _God_ he was bored...

Just as JARVIS was coming down the stairs, a knocking came from the front door. Stark bolted upright out of fright and instinct, then immediately gave the automaton a sharp look. Without a word, the robotic being swiftly back-tracked, closing the upstairs door behind him. Putting aside the water pouch and running his hands through his dirty and unruly hair, Tony plastered a light smirk across his face and opened the door.

There stood Kelda, or should he say _Lady_ Kelda, outfitted in a pale blue dress with a faint grey shawl, bits of lace edging the fabric. In her hands was another basket, and a knowing look in her eyes as he smiled tauntingly back. The man had only met her once and already he seemed to be convinced she was the bizarre reincarnation of Pepper in a different universe.

"Uh, Kelda! What's brought you to this neck of the woods? Did my blindingly good looks cause you to come back and stand in my after-glow?"

The young woman legitimately rolled her eyes at Tony Stark. "Think what you will, Anthony, but I know why you act as you do. Let me in and take care of your injuries before I force myself inside." Her tone was both sarcastic but sharp, which really had the genius believing she was a reincarnation. Hopefully not to haunt him; Pepper often swore she would if he ever did die. And he technically kinda did, if being swallowed up by flames counted. There was no way he could not get out of this predicament.

Resigned, he gestured her to come inside, opening the door wider and allowing her in. Lady Kelda smiled triumphantly, looking very smug for being a dainty merchant's daughter. It was her turn to command as soon as Tony shut the door, forcing him to sit in his rocking chair and strip himself of his clothes excluding his pants. He grumbled irritably, running his hands through his hair as a sign of annoyance.

The woman took a moment to simply study him, and noted her husand's talent of deduction was truly impeccable. This man was indeed an odd specimen, not falling into any category that she really could think of. Anthony was clearly not Rohirric, not by a long shot. Yes, those Horse-lords were known for their brown eyes, but the smith before her had eyes too bright for that. His hair color didn't seem to conform to any certain category either, as none of the men of Gondor, and surely not the men of Rohan, had a simple brunette color as that. Was he half-elven? Lady Kelda had never seen a real elf, or a half-elf for that matter, but to her this man was so much _an oddity_ that maybe he did have some of that fair folk blood in him. There were plenty of rumors already flying about it. It certainly made sense, for it was hard to tell his age from his face. Yes, there were lines there, but Anthony smiled often. The physical state he was in was surely impressive! He was average in height, sturdy by all accounts. _Strikingly handsome really_, she thought.

But such an attractive figure as Anthony's was marred by the sight of stained cloth bandages and minuscule jagged cuts. Lady Kelda was curious as to how he had come by such injuries, and how her dear lover had so easily missed that detail. He told her he did flinch when touched, but he assumed it was a warrior's instinct. Though she wouldn't be surprised if he was a proficient combatant, but the man had a serious wound to his shoulder. Kelda was shocked to say the least that he could still _use_ it. Most would already find themselves ailing from either infection or pain, but here was the new Smithy, shining it on.

Kelda voiced her shock, shaking her head. "It is a blessing that you still have use of your arm. From the amount of staining upon the bandages I provided, I judge your wound to be deep and roughly cut. Many times I have heard from my husband that most men loose their legs or arms when they are in such a state, from infection or from the lack of feeling. I have often contributed some of my time to the Healing House here in the city, but I have yet to see a man as gifted with good luck as you." She moved towards him, unwrapping the bandages carefully with agile fingers with his chocolate eyes following her movements.

"So I've been told," he responded plainly without much emotion.

His eyes seemed very wary at that moment, and as she moved to unwrap the last and largest bandage, his strong hands shot out and stilled her wrist. Kelda had found it strange that he had such a large bandage strategically wrapped around his torso, woven around his upper body to overlap the center of his chest. But his actions made her even more suspicious as before. Her eyes looked up to meet his, and found what almost appeared to be hazel flames in them. Such intensity almost shocked her. Where was the strange Smithy that poked fun at her? Now in its place was a grim male that was exuding strength. Much like her husband when he was taking on his job as a warrior gatesman and not her beloved.

"Why have you stopped me? Is it so terrible you think I shall shrink away in disgust?"

That wasn't the reason Tony Stark had stopped her. Beneath all those bandages was his arc reactor, and he wasn't about to show that to anybody in this world. He wasn't someone to be thought a fool, that was for damn sure. This world made him feel like he was in some fantasy video game. And the genius knew his AI was quickly compiling theories on where the hell they were, just by reviewing his sensor scans and cross-referencing his expansive data banks. Not to mention Stark was beyond paranoid. Already he had plenty of theories about the exact world he found himself in, but really he was unsure whether he should search out further information. If even one word about his reactor got out into the city, he'd be on the run for sure. The man would have to tread carefully, and be very careful on who he'd show his arc reactor to. Even Kelda. _Especially_ Kelda.

"Just..." He started, searching for the proper words, "Don't. I can figure you mean well and all, Kelds, but I'd rather tend to this one myself."

Deciding to let it lie, while also in fear of those intensely haunting eyes, the Lady nodded. Tony released her hand, murmuring an apology, and allowing the married woman to tend to his injuries like a mother would to her rambunctious child. The silence that surrounded them soon became intolerable for Kelda, and thus she broke the uncomfortable quiet with gossip.

"So..." She began, a smirk suddenly stretching across her face, "Rumors are already spreading throughout the levels of Minas Tirith about a dark-skinned man appearing within the walls with blood of an elf."

From that statement, Stark rose his brow in incredulity. "An elf? And I'm dark-skinned? I know you guys look like ghosts compared to me, but it's not like I'm a fucking black rapper."

Kelda's own brow rose, just as incredulous. What was he yammering on about? And had he cursed in context? "Well, are you not of fair blood? Compared to the races of Men, you are neither Gondorian nor Rohirric. You are truly a visible oddity, Anthony."

"Umm... No? None of my parents were pointy-eared blondes, and am I really that ugly? You're sounding like morally-disturbed Obi, so if your attempt at comforting is by calling me weird, you've got to polish up on your social skills, Kelds."

Her eye twitched. "Kelds?"

"What? I needed to give you some kind of nickname. If you don't like it, I bet I can think of twenty more that are equally bad."

The Lady sighed, continuing her work. "Nonetheless, rumors have spread of you, and already my beloved has been questioned about your occupation and purpose here. Many respected his father, and from the praise he sings of you already, people already believe to be the next Heavy-Hand of Gondor."

"But I didn't talk with him beyond that one meeting at the Gate. I've barely known either of you for more than a day! Do you have trust problems or something?"

"No Anthony, we simply have faith in you. Especially Derufin. He clearly sees something in you to admire, so I trust his judgment and support that belief. You have showed that belief to be well-placed so far."

Tony Stark was honestly in awe of their ability to trust so easily. The Middle Ages was different from the 21st Century, obviously, but it hadn't hit him until now. People didn't have the Internet or a resume to judge you by here. Clothes didn't exactly make the man, as he had seen some middle class shopkeepers wear near thread-bare clothes even though they ran a fabric shop or a leather-working stall. Judgements were based on body language and the emotions evident in your eyes. If first impressions went well, there was reason to take risk and trust them. And it seemed somehow Stark had become a valid risk to Kelda's husband. Plus, he understood that in a world of the bow and sword, trust was all you had. Not a bunch of electronic radars or long-distance communications through radio. Simple, raw, honest to goodness _trust_ from man-to-man. Stark had only ever experienced this type of interaction with his fellow superhero teammates when they had first met and saved the world, but now it seemed time had turned back to the point such a risky thing as blind trust was a utility to survival.

Stark nodded to her, face unreadable as his mind processed this abrupt revelation. Kelda smiled lightly at him, tying off the last bandage and stepping back. She unloaded the extra medical supplies onto a nearby work table, picking up the basket and hooking it over her arm.

The Lady turned to him, "I shall leave you extra supplies to tend to your chest wound. Do not put yourself under too much strain as you prepare this place for business. I can tell you are one of those men who hate to be without work; Derufin is much the same."

Then with a brief bow, Kelda turned away and left the forge, closing the door behind her as the man formerly known as Iron Man stood from his rocking chair and stared out the open window lost in his thoughts.

* * *

Another day had come, and the visit from Kelda was in the past. Stark would have probably spent longer pondering his current state of living and the world he had found himself in with JARVIS, but already a day had passed with only a growing number very thick and intimidating books full of hand-written notes to show for it. Today, he and his automaton had real work to do. Which, would also be the most tiresome.

It was debating on the pick of technique. As this forge was a forge meant the create weapons for the army, or at least that's what _Derufin_ had told him just this morning before he went to his duties at the gate. Stark finally got his name right, and _Jesus_ it was a tongue-twister! Anyway, the ideas for the techniques were what got his mind boggling. Not really, but he was feeling a bit conflicted. I mean seriously! Which was he to use? Should he temper the blades with certain water temperatures when they cool, or should he forge them with layering? Can he forge a medieval sword with a blade similarly created as a samurai sword? They had the most effective weapons, no mistake. The steel alloy they made was unique, and not to mention resilient to breaks and weathering. But then again, he could just forge such a sword the traditional European way, which wasn't that bad either. Just brittle and apt to breaking. That nerdy side to him, the genius that was a bit of a closet case, totally digged samurai. Badass and all kung-fu shit. Or was it karate? Whatever, still completely awesome.

Then, JARVIS appeared and decided for him. "_Sir, I advise that you utilize the Japanese technique of Tamahagane, which would customarily forge three separate grades of steel into a single balanced blade. Though the shape of their medieval weapons are different from that of the Europeans of the Middle Ages, I believe with a certain level of trial and error will give us a unique result that will surely be successful here. If needed, it would also be wise to reflect on the Ulfberht swordcraft, which would mean having a blade forged with steel containing a low-slag content. I find it personally surprising that these feats have been accomplished by history... _"

Yep, that was AI speak that translated into Stark to mean, 'Just fucking make some awesome ninja-slicin' swords that look like something out of _Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch_ and blow their minds with your Starkyness. P.S. remember to use the purest steel you can for optimal legitimacy.'

Make it so!

Thus Tony found himself leaping from his rocking chair in a fresh outfit Kelda had washed for him and rushing to the basement door. That lady was a friggin' Pepper; There was no other way of putting it. Cleaned his clothes, his sheets, and gave him an awesome breakfast and dinner. Yeah, Stark was a billionaire back home and he dearly missed his tower, his company, his Malibu home, Pepper, Rhodes, Happy, and in some strange way the rest of the Avengers, but with the living he had going right now was actually okay with him. Maybe because he still had JARVIS, but he'd not begin to admit that anytime soon. Though annoying Capsicle was actually something he wouldn't mind indulging in.

Shaking his head as he stumbled his way down the stairs, his mind was already brimming with ideas. So in the end, that weird nerd was totally excited. Yes, he was guilty of watching the _Karate Kid_ and a bunch of Bruce Lee films, not to mention all of those Lord of Rings movies, but he was Tony Stark. He didn't give a flying duck how people saw him for watching them; he was just doing his own thing. Nothing was really wrong with that, unless that caused stuff to explode with a very loud Boom.

Then just as he moved to pry open a barrel of ore, the man stilled. Wait... _Lord of the Rings_. Minas Tirith. Gondor and Rohan. Not to mention everybody in the whole White motherfucking City thought he was some god damn half-elf! His mind was already connecting the dots, eyes widening comically as he dropped the crude tool from his hands.

"Holy shit... **_JARVIS!_**" He yelled frantically, rushing back up the staircase to where the automaton was busing himself.

The man seemed to almost act out a scene from _Pirates of the Caribbean_, with the way he was being stupendously shocked while running about madly for a sign of a robotic automation. Very Sparrow-esque. Tony finally found his AI upstairs in his room, sitting perfectly straight in a small wooden chair, the unpolished metal hands in the midst of binding yet another very thick book. The head turned to Stark, eye lenses trained on him.

"Jarvis, how many theories have you come up with?"

"_Excuse me Sir?_" spoke the AI, confused by the vague request, "_Are you referring to the possible scenarios that resulted in appearing in this foreign landscape?_"

"Yes, Jarv, I am. How many have you come up with?" He repeated.

"_In the beginning, thirty-five possible scenarios. Upon factoring in the abrupt backfire we both had been swallowed by, it shrank to fifteen. After reviewing a number of radial scans I have amassed through the Mark V's systems, along with the names and places Kelda had utilized, I have now only four remaining._"

His gut twisted uncomfortably at this information. "What are those scenarios?"

"_The first possible scenario is that the blast had been of a strong enough magnitude to create a form of rift, and thus swallowed us into a separate time period. Though, the place itself is in fact an alternate reality to our own, allowing for the changes in apparent name, language, and landscape. This is the weakest of the scenarios._

"_A second scenario suggests something again similar to a rift, but it causes a crack in dimensions, sending us through to an entirely different place than our own with varied races, locations, etc. Technology such as our own does not exist for them, or is yet to be developed. But, both this scenario and the aforementioned one are not easily supported, for the power required would have to have been immense; strong enough to topple the Avengers Tower and cause seismic activity in Manhattan._

"_The third possible scenario involves the accidental triggering of the Bifrost, which is in upon itself a very strange and unpredictable form of transportation utilized by the Asgardians. We know after our confrontation with Thor's brother that it can be opened more than one way, so it is possible that the conditions had been met during the backfire. And since Thor revealed the knowledge that the Bifrost is the connecting force allowing for long-distance transport, it is highly possible we're on a separate planet from our own._

"_But the forth is the most probable in comparison to scenarios one through three. It is a combination of all the previous possibilities, as well as a few minor changes. The powerful backfire explosion could have ignited all the other highly volatile weapons within the lab, generating an influx of combusted energy focused in one single point. Other conditions, possibly the date, time, weather, and occurrence, were needed for this one-time reaction. With such conditions met, something neither of the Bifrost or of a rift-like nature had been created, controlled by an unknown factor; A person. For what reason, I am unsure. But the portal devised had taken us through, without fail. As for the place we are currently, I am horrified to stay it is closely resembling the famous literary works of J.R.R. Tolkien, specifically the Lord of the Rings trilogy._"

Tony Stark, for all intensive purposes, was silent. How else could a man of science respond to such a possible, horrifying revelation that almost bordered on fanatical? As stated before, he was a bit of a closet case nerd. That childish side of him was entertained by Kung-Fu action flicks, ridiculous Fantasy novels, Science Fiction, and _Lord of the Rings_ movies. Being the goofball genius everybody knew and in some way loved, that was strangely acceptable. Yet to wake up after being possibly blown apart by a backfire in one of his experimental weapons to a world only found in the written imagination of a long-dead author was not something anyone could have expected of the snarky Tony Stark.

The ex-billionaire slowly stumbled back, falling to sit in the edge of the somewhat stiff bed. His shoulders slumped, elbows resting on his thighs and hands cradling his head. Stark's AI studied him from the small wooden seat at the writing desk, watching for maybe the third time since Stark's kidnapping in the Middle East as the real man beneath the facade of sarcasm emerged, solemn and almost broken. It was rare for JARVIS' creator to reveal this dark side of him, and the automaton knew only a select few people had ever witnessed it. Such vulnerability made Stark uncomfortable and feeling bare, leaving his heart on his sleeve and open to ridicule. That was why Tony always acted the way he did; It was his defense mechanism. Yet here the man was, lost in his racing thoughts and appearing physically fractured.

Stark lifted his head, eyes suddenly bright. "Jarvis, how many days until Derufin gets here?" He asked, wanting to confirm his spinning thoughts.

"_One more day, Sir. Whatever's left of today and tomorrow is all the time we have before your deadline with the Gatesman_."

There was a pause, Tony's mind running at exceeding speeds with possibilities once again. A smile slowly crept onto his face, and the man jumped up from his spot of the bed. "Well then, we got work cut out for us don't we?"

If the AI could convey emotion, an equally devious smile would have plastered the automaton's metallic facial structure. "_Indeed, Sir_," JARVIS responded lightly.


End file.
